#|| ❝ my mouth filled with the aching taste of rebirth ❞ || act iii

[rubistella]

@bakrahispul || is dealing with blood-drunk vampire cat bf

"did you see the look on his face?" astarion clung to his lover's trunk of an arm, blood-drunk and a bit woozy with every step faltering and his only saving grace the fact he had keeping his own balance down to a science. "he looked positively hideous." an inebriated peal of hoarse laughter escaped him. perhaps the most genuine he'd let out ever since their arrival. "i mean, most of us do during the stroke of death. but to watch all that stalwart confidence crumble to absolute dread? mwah!"

let alone the fact they had just saved a pair of brats from their captors. astarion was far more concerned about the look in said captors' eyes than the brats themselves, whom halsin had insisted they delivered home only to find that the kids didn't have a home to return to.

a pity.

finding themselves a secluded spot under a towering willow in the heart of bloomridge park, astarion waited for halsin to settle down first before nestling himself between the druid's legs and easing back against him. evidence of their little murderous excursion still clung to his chin in a trickle of blood astarion had yet to do away with.

"you know," his smile grew, hand coming down to pluck a starflower off by the stem and hold it up to his nose, picking it apart petal by petal. "if i had known that being such a bloody do-gooder could inspire so much horror in the hearts of those we're putting to sword, why i might even have started sooner myself." a chuckle, more breath than sound. the flower in his hold only one-third ruined. "honestly, i could do without all of the grandiose displays of gratitude thrown my way by the peasantry. now, the gory deaths that precede them?" throwing his head back against the druid's chest, the pale elf's fangs bared in display of a rampant laugh. "hah! tease me any harder with that sort of vicious delight, my love, and you might as well end up inside of me by the night's end."

doing good and astarion didn't exactly come as a package deal.

...unless, of course, encouraged by the prospect of murder and feasting on the blood of thinking creatures, in which case he could be persuaded.

[rubistella]

@fiendishfinesse || continued

The laugh came sharp, slicing through the air like glass against concrete– scornful, bitter. It didn’t rise, didn’t roll out with ease. No, it tore its way free, raw and dissonant, splintering decorum in its wake. There was nothing in it but a hollow sound, the kind of laugh that devoured the space it inhabited, stripping it bare of civility.

It echoed, billowed in the air like incense, and then faded into a sneer.

“Oh yeah?” Astarion’s smirk curled. Mocking, rebellious. Defiance sat heavy on pale lips as he tested the restraints once, twice, feeling the press of Raphael’s cock against his inner thigh– a reminder of their power imbalance.

For now at least.

“I wouldn’t get ahead of myself and claim victory just yet if I were you…” He let the words linger, fester like autumnal rust. “That pet of yours I kicked out of your boudoir earlier? Harlop, was it?” Astarion had never truly bothered to learn the cunt’s name. “Wonder what he’d look like– hind up, face down, back littered with scars that won’t be so quick to heal.”

His tenor was subtle, carrying threat like a dagger drawn beneath a silk handkerchief. Meant to cut, and deep. Raphael’s possessiveness over his toys wasn’t lost on him. The prettier they were, the more obsessive the devil seemed to get.

And Raphael, of course, must've always considered himself the prettiest.

[rubistella]

@bearlydruid || continued from x (plotted)

Astarion’s pitch-black humour was coloured by intrigue when the druid claimed him to himself not long ago. There he thought Halsin wasn’t the type to hold things too close, much less be possessive. But here they were, seated on a tapestry laid out on a balcony which overlooked the ocean, sharing space in a way that didn’t invite anyone else in. Not the bard making eyes at him back in the tavern, or the barmaid wiping down the same tables repeatedly, always hovering nearby.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Appreciative. A secret smile tugged at the vampire's mouth while he twirled a little star flower just shy of his nose. The same one he'd pressed to the druid's lips earlier. An ode to their first kiss.

Halsin’s heartbeat, once quickened by his earlier territorial impulses, had now slowed into a steady rhythm. Each pulse soothed and sang, lulling the pale elf into a rare state of contentment. It almost tempted Astarion to carve the organ out of his chest, keep it as a token somewhere near…

A shame it would stop beating if he did that.

“Oh? Do you like them?” Pale brows perked up a little, less-than-half innocent while his fingers toyed with that blossom still. It was no secret the vampire spent an hour each day preening his curls to perfection. Good thing elves didn’t need much sleep, or he’d be losing daylight over vanity. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have hair like yours... It seems so effortless.” There was a tinge of envy somewhere in there.

Pushing his head back against Halsin’s broad chest, Astarion let a pinchful of those burnt-blond strands cascade over an index and slip through his fingers. “Not that I mind taking care of my own hair.” Toeing the line between playful and malicious, the vampire tugged a little at that stray braid. “But the absence of a reflection certainly doesn’t make the job any easier.” And then he tugged harder, enough to send a message— just not the one you'd say out loud.

“So...” Intrigue slithered itself into the drawl of his tenor and crimsons narrowed to pin the druid's eyes under the scrutiny of their prying stare. Their weight akin to daggers finding a tender spot to sink into. “Are we going to talk about what happened back in the tavern, or are we just pretending that wasn't a thing?”

[rubistella]

@bearlydruid is enabling the angst || continued

A battleground of scars, blooming into bruises, cuts only half-healed. Halsin’s body was a map of violence, an archive of pain etched into flesh. Astarion’s eyes drifted over him, not with empathy… never that. But he'd grown close enough to the archdruid to feel something. A lot sharper, more possessive too. Fondness? Perhaps. But not before the urge to destroy whatever had dared to break this man. Not as sweet, but murderous.

He might have been the one to stab Orin more times than deemed necessary. Pale hands still shook from it. And it was there, back in Bhaal's unholy temple, that the ghost of his former master crawled beneath his skin, tightened his throat, stole his breath away.

Astarion was sure he’d felt something tremble in his own voice at the time. He was half-hoping Halsin had been too lost in his stupor during the whole thing to take notice. Half-hoping he had not.

The vampire couldn't simply make up his goddamn mind, could he?

“Is it alright if I sit?” That came softer than intended, carrying the weight of someone too familiar with a grim hand dealt by fate. Because Astarion knew the look of a man haunted when he saw one, the way trauma settled in… made a home where it did not belong. Festered. At least here, in the Elfsong Tavern's safety, there was hope that nobody would target the druid... If anything, they'd might as well come for Astarion first. Whoever "they" were. “Or I could leave you to it… if that’s what you prefer. I merely thought you could use the company.”

[rubistella]

"Oh, no... no, no, no. I certainly feel like I deserve happiness just as much as the next person." Though the burden of his sins weighed on him like an oversized coat, Astarion was nowhere near enough righteous to let them stoop his spine or tether his ambitions. "Naturally, after a life like mine, happiness becomes less of a right and more of an indulgence. The sort of thing one glimpses through a gilded window, just beyond their reach." 

The light in his eyes dulled, as if those windows of opportunity had just closed before him. Lowering his face back to the wizard, the vampire situated himself behind him, outside of the bathtub still.

"Though, judging by that voice of yours and the way you wear misery as if it were tailored just for you, I’d say happiness is something you’ve forfeited the moment you stained your hands with your first deadly sin." Killing his own parents, was it?

Had it been anyone else, Astarion might have indulged in a twisted sense of amusement, equal parts wicked and delighted. But this was Caleb. A man who spoke to the vampire’s undead heart in a way to thaw the ice around it. There was no room for vicarious thrill here, no pleasure to entertain from another’s torment.

With Caleb, it was different.

Astarion's stare softened and, for all but a moment, the performance wasn’t for the thrill of it. It was a display of strength where strength had failed his lover. "Well, we all have our sins, don't we?" His voice was soft, silky... it was an ode to warmth and empathy, or about as close to that as a vampire like him could muster.

The pale elf's touch on Caleb's skin landed like an art form. Deft, milk-white fingers glided over the man’s arm with a tender elegance to betray the countless times that vampire might have bathed a lover before. At some point, he’d swapped a wet cloth for a bar of soap, hands exploring and caressing, pressing thumbs into the tension knots around the wizard’s neck with an almost intimate purpose.

“It just pains me to watch this… your struggle, I mean. It’s almost as if I wished you the same happiness I chase for myself regardless of your own... reservations concerning the matter.” The kind that made a martyr out of the wizard.

Caleb's chest clenches at the vulnerability in Astarion's confession, at the echoes of trauma that still haunted the elf even centuries later. He knew all too well the fear, perhaps even guilt, of good things, the certainty they would be ripped away at any moment.

It was a feeling that had dogged his own steps for years, a constant companion in the shadows of his mind.

With a gentle squeeze of Astarion's proffered hand, the wizard allowed himself to be guided into the warm embrace of the bathwater. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he sank down, the heat seeping into his travel-weary muscles and soothing away the aches and pains of the day.

"Nein, it is not stupid at all," Caleb murmured, tilting his head back to meet Astarion's crimson gaze. "I understand. The certainty that happiness is fleeting, or even, the insecurity of believing you are not worthy of it somehow."

He had lived with that feeling for so long, had let it shape his every action and decision. In many ways, he still did and might never stop. The idea of moving on from his sins almost felt like a betrayal to his parents.

"I am not that filthy," Caleb felt Astarion’s hands as they began to work the grime from his skin, pale fingers massaging soap into the wizard's shoulders and down his back. The vampire was uncharacteristically quiet.

[rubistella]

@fiendishfinesse || continued x

As always, Astarion fought against every instinct screaming for retreat, muscles wound with the effort to remain still, to keep himself from flinching when the fiend’s infernal fingers grazed his own, heat from the touch scorching against his arctic skin.

“Forgive me,” the vampire began, sarcasm dripping from his words as if designed to corrode, “but after two centuries with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back, selfless acts of kindness are rather difficult to believe.” His lips curled into a smile that lacked all sense of humour. A fitting look for a vampire. “Still, I suppose I could make the effort.” Lies had never landed more obvious before. Though Astarion was practiced in the art of deception, each word delivered with a smoothness he’d perfected over decades, he didn’t bother to mask the mendacity behind them.

With granted permission, the pale elf unsheathed his blades, metal scrape against leather echoed through the room before they hit the floor, abandoned without a glance. His brand new daggers gleamed viciously, the velvet-lined box tossed aside with equal disregard. “Give me your hand.” Should the devil refuse to comply, Astarion would see that he took the hand himself, fingers deft as he sliced across Raphael’s lifeline to watch the blood well up, dark and viscous. And just like that, the blade soaked up the fluid and a significant growth in Astarion’s strength was registered.

It didn’t take rocket science to piece together the rest.

Fucker got his hands on a vampiric weapon somehow.

“Raphael…” Soft but barbed, Astarion's eyes narrowed. There was a pause, a stretch of silence that ran like a blade mid-foreplay held just above the skin. Rhapsody itself never looked this deadly, this beautiful. “…where did you get this?”

Astarion’s stare rose to meet the cambion's. Every syllable stretched to suspicion.

[rubistella]

@windwithinmyveins || continued from x

“If you think that’s going to divert my attention from the issue here, you clearly have plenty to learn still.” Condescending.

One couldn’t simply just play a rogue’s very own cards against him and expect the triumphant effect of a royal flush. Rooting his feet to the ground, Astarion’s arms folded over his chest and he bounced his weight from one leg to the other.

“Well?” Crimson eyes swung from the visibly confused elven gent to the little drow lady. "This is the time you shed some light on what in the hells just happened there, my dear. There will be no visits to the tailor until I hear this."

It took two to tango and Astarion could prove himself to be just as stubborn as Ceres was. If not more.

[rubistella]

@fiendishfinesse || continued x

“Isn’t it obvious?” Astarion’s brow arched, the curve of it a mocking challenge. Raphael, all his infernal airs and debonair stride, never really bothered to hide the way he knew things– meta-knowledge dripping from his every word, every sadistic little punishment that followed whenever Astarion dared to indulge elsewhere. “Well, yes, I suppose you could waltz right up, drown yourself in those waters– make a home of them if you so wished. But…” He tilted his head, as if considering the cambion with sudden, lackadaisical intrigue, “would that give you any real insight? Would it show you the truth of what you’re looking for?”

The question dangled between them like a baited hook. That conspiratorial lilt of his soothing tenor coiled around it, bled from it. “After all,” Astarion leaned forward, just enough to trim the distance by a hair, “behavioural patterns are a bit more elusive, aren't they, devil? You don’t catch them by simply wading in.”

[rubistella]

“So, you’re telling me that all this time, you could’ve been human while we—” Astarion’s words trailed off, caught somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. A tongue darted over ivories, lingering on the cusp of a smirk that was cold, bitter. The kind of smile you’d expect from someone who found irony in tragedy. He let out a chuckle, more breath than sound, folding arms across his chest like he needed something to hold onto. Even if himself.

That story about his wife, his daughter, her demise? In the grand scheme, it felt small now, insignificant. There was something else gnawing at him, something that had been brewing in the back of his thoughts.

“Why didn’t you do it?” Astarion’s eyes narrowed into slits, voice a dagger’s edge but quiet. The kind of quiet that could cut. “Have you any idea how much easier that would’ve made things for us? For me?”

And there it was. The elephant in the room.

"I was. Yes. I was a priest of Lathander back in my days. Centuries ago. I ran a small church out of one of many close by towns. I was a married man. Had a wife, and a five year old daughter. We had quite the trouble conceiving. But I suppose knowing that what I truly am, which is was an aberrant parasite living in the body of a human, it made sense why it was hard."

There's some seconds of silence. Solemness to it all. It all feels like yesterday, and for Connor, it was. He was alive one second, and then dead the next, with his town nothing but rubble. Centuries slipped by while for him, it only felt like he'd blinked.

"As for your second question, I can do better than any mere illusion magic. I can create flesh. I can alter myself, physically. Often, however, I choose not to. It feels disingenuous to lie to people about what I am. But I do often tire of people running after me with pitchforks and torches."

[rubistella]

@fiendishfinesse || and our 10k threads

“Tempting.” Astarion’s tongue grazed the pointy end of a fang as Raphael’s touch lingered. Sensations deepened, the slow rise of awareness. Was Raphael doing something with his infernal powers again? Eyelids drew into slits. The devil never did bother to ask for permission, not when mischief was within arm’s reach.

“But why ruin the surprise?” Astarion’s voice turned. Intimate… provocative. “I imagine you won’t allow anyone else the pleasure of being my first, once it happens.”

A sly grin tugged at his lips. How amusing it would be, to afford someone else with the opportunity just to watch Raphael bristle, to keep him on his toes a little.

Now that would rile him up nicely, wouldn’t it?

“Unless…” Astarion pivoted, all feline fluidity and satin arrogance, back pressing flush against the devil's chest. Palms, cold to the touch, roamed down the length of his master's arms, coaxing them around his slender frame, folding him into an embrace. His shoulders curled a little in an almost demure display. Almost. “What if your pet slipped the leash?” Soothing tenor teased into a whisper, sultry, suggestive. “What if he played with someone else, tasted them before you ever got the chance to indulge in his newfound… abilities?” Tilting his head back, lips ghosted over Raphael’s ear and mischief reintroduced itself to those ravishing rubies Astarion had for eyes. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

[rubistella]

@harpershigh || continued...

Astarion’s smile was a sly, crooked thing– part charm, part mischief, like he was always one step ahead of a joke only he understood. It never fully committed, teetering between smug satisfaction and playful defiance, with just the slightest whiff of danger about it. The kind of smile that didn’t just invite trouble. It embraced it.

“You’re the apple dangling from the tree, darling.” His words fell slow and sticky, landing with mock reverence. “The longer I stare, the more I’m inclined to start taking bites.” Oh, and wasn’t it simply delightful how the druid never gave him a straight answer? Almost as if her resolve were some kind of public exhibit, begging for a bit of testing.

The campfire flickered invitingly, warm… safe. Enough to draw the vampire near, where he helped himself to a seat next to the lady. A white blossom, plucked from somewhere near, twirled between his fingers, next to his nose.

Star flowers always had a way of finding him.

“Oh, Jaheira! I’ve been simply starved for attention, couldn’t you tell?” His voice hiked at every odd syllable, a telltale sign of his mischief in display. “Or perhaps…” Leaning in, Astarion broached the druid’s space with all the grace of a cat about to knock something off a shelf, twirling the blossom by the stem before brushing her hair back to tuck it delicately behind her pointy ear. “Perhaps I'd rather hear a firm ‘no’ from the start than be toyed with. Because, if memory serves, I don’t recall a proper answer from you… unless we’re counting those coy little jests of yours.”

Astarion's smile sharpened, only a shade closer to inviting.

[rubistella]

@wizofwaterdeep and i plot too much shit, part ii plotted starter

Moonlight filtered in through stained windows, catching dust motes and seraphic glow on the gentle twists of the pale elf’s silver curls. Had it not been for an idle finger curled over the tip of a page, vandalising it in his absorption, Astarion might as well have been sculpted out of marble with chisel in how perfectly still he was. His skin a garden of lustred pearls and beauty far too unnatural to prove physical.

Like the gods had damned him to inspire terror and wonder with no in-betweens.

Breathing wasn’t invited in the hours past dusk and blinking a luxury he didn’t afford himself this late either. They were distractions. Yet the biggest distraction of all was the wizard’s dominated stare on him. Moment frozen in time before a rustle of sheets disturbed the natural peace of its deathless silence.

Astarion’s apathy sharpened itself into a sneer on cue.

Dripping cynicism and seductive in its playful hints of malice.

Now what?

Pushing a tongue against the inside of his cheek, crimson eyes lifted to meet the prying stare. A signal... No. A plea? With his hand hovered just shy of the vampire's gaunt cheek, the wizard waited in kind.

I want to touch you.

Words left unsaid, but the brown in his stare brimmed with enough desire to speak in laconic tongues. Astarion's eyes were the first to break their focus, welcoming the beholder to the empty spot by mattress' edge.

Then do.

[rubistella]

Astarion knew Halsin meant well. He always did. But chaos had a way of slipping through his defences, cracking open the mask the vampire worked so hard to maintain. Sharp words came unbidden, aimed at no one in particular, yet they always seemed to land on Halsin. He was closest, after all– collateral damage to the storm Astarion couldn’t always hold back.

An inhale, long. An exhale, longer, but no less strained.

“Apologies.” Heavy and reluctant. Hesitation marked Halsin’s poise, the way he hovered just outside of reach. As if touching Astarion in moments like this might shatter him. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of crystal every time I–” Lose control? Grieve? He wasn’t sure what it was anymore. What it was that broke him like this, left him feeling undone. “...I’m not quite my usual self.”

Admission sat awkwardly, as though it hadn’t quite settled in his chest yet. There was no fixing it, no clear line between what he could explain and what he couldn’t. Just a murky space that left him drifting between apology and another outburst, always so dangerously close to sparking another protest.

And every new one cut deeper than the last.

“It’s not your fault.” Astarion’s hand lifted, cupping Halsin’s cheek as if touch alone could make up for what words did not explain. Nuzzling against the crook of the druid’s nose, eyelids closed, his features tightened almost as if in pain. “It’s just… difficult.” A low drawl, a quiet admission layered with frustration. He adjusted in his seat, pulling back, the motion accompanied by a sigh that seemed to spill from somewhere deep inside, heavier than intended. “Would that I could have been afforded a few extra boons with this… thing in my head.” Astarion’s eyes chased the floor, words thickened bearing a weight unseen, as if he wasn’t just speaking of lost opportunities, but something far more irretrievable.

Resignation marked him, evident in the slump of his shoulders, the way his body seemed to fold in on itself. Even his tenor, usually so vivant and cutting, now carried the stamp of a funeral march, hollow and dreary.

"Astarion." The response the vampire had given him was harsher than he'd expected, but he hadn't realized just how much Astarion had been bothered. Halsin pushed himself up from the bed, sitting up properly. Even without a candle to see Astarion's face or the glow of the fire to light the room, he could see his rogue clearly. Dark vision had its uses, and despite not looking quite Elven, Halsin is grateful for the many gifts from their graceful ancestors. "There is nothing wrong with your face. I do not...want to share your plight of a tadpole, but, were it possible to just show you...." He let out a sigh.

He'd be cleaning up the mess that Durge made with their flippant comment. "My love, I apologize." Halsin let the hand that had almost settled on Astarion's shoulder drop to the bed. Astarion had stopped his touch before, maybe he preferred not having contact then. He almost considered another joke, but it probably would have simply fallen as flat as the first might have. "Unfortunately, my sketch work is not...." Well. He drew medical diagrams and plants, mostly. "I would not do you justice. I am sure we might find someone who could, however." Now that Astarion has his own say, would that even be something he might be interested in? Baldur's Gate boasted an array of artists and talented individuals, certainly someone could.

[rubistella]

Gives him a nice slap on the ass via a tentacle the next time he walks by.

@relentlessgrief || unprompted

When the smack landed square on his backside, Astarion practically leapt into the air, daggers unsheathed in a flash. He whirled around, pivoting a sharp 180, ready to retaliate with a bite or a blade—until he saw the familiar sight of Connor's tendrils waving at him.

It was some grotesque, comically unsettling display Astarion could most definitely have done without.

A sigh spilled from his lips, more exasperation than anything else, as he slowly lowered his weapons. “Of course... of course it would be you.” His tenor landed flat before a scoff.

“You could have lost one of those things, you know? Not that I'd be surprised if you told me they grow back.” The vampire pointed with the tip of his dagger toward those macabre little tentacles and a single brow perked. “Honestly, Connor. If you were even breathing to begin with, I'd simply have to question your love for life.”

Or the absolute lack thereof.

[rubistella]

“Come to bed, my heart.” - @bearlydruid

@bearlydruid || being affectionate

Convincing Gale to switch places with Halsin had taken more than a little finesse, especially with the druid’s side of the inn growing uncomfortably crowded these days. What ultimately swayed the wizard was Astarion's mention that if Gale didn’t comply, he would happily entertain the wood elf right there in his own bed across from the the man's, and make it a point to be as noisy as possible while at it.

That seemed to have done the trick.

Now, fingers brushed against his own cheeks, brows pressed into a furrow as the vampire fussed over his complexion, likely due to the Dark Urge threatening him with the mention of a growing mole that did not appeal to the eye earlier that day.

“I’m coming,” a tongue clicked and he found himself a seat at the edge of the druid’s mattress. “Say, is there something on my face?”

[rubistella]

@archdruiid || continued

If there was one perk to being a rogue, it was his inclination towards insight when it came to deceit. Power of manipulation made a home in the hearts of those who lied, and if Astarion had chance a guess? Halsin might have been sick of feeling powerlessness after the whole ordeal with Orin.

Luckily, they managed to distract the changeling just in time... but one night of victory could never hope to erase a full week of abuse.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd even say you are lying." Except he did know better and Halsin was lying. It took two to tango and all that. With the cut of his jawline jerking towards the empty spot by the druid's side, Astarion's head canted. "May I?"